


The Drums of Mandalore

by CoffeeQuill



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Yoda Acquisition, Adopted Children, Adoption, Bounty Hunters, Dancing, Genocide, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Love, M/M, Music, Oneshot, Revenge, Singing, Survival, Traditions, Young Din Djarin, Young Love, ceremonial dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23047114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill
Summary: Din looks at him, then over as more dancers begin to step into the center, some stretching out. His eyes are big. He looks into the fire.“Can I learn to dance, too?” he asks, his voice so quiet that it’s almost drowned out.---From the day he's found, traditional Mandalorian dances become the center of Din's life. Until they're not.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 275





	The Drums of Mandalore

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing is inspired by the folks over on the [Covert discord server](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N) when we started talking about Mandalorians having dances, and Din being quite good at them. This is the result.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr!](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

The first day he’s brought into the compound is the first day he ever witnesses it. Terrified and out of tears to cry, he barely looks up from his feet until he hears the clanging, feels a sudden vibration through the floor.

“What is that?” he whispers.

His finder looks down at him, just as masked as he ever is, but he gives Din’s hand a squeeze and walks forward, gently pulling him along. Din stumbles at first but rights himself, following at his side, as there’s another vibration and the clanging gets louder. Everything feels dark and dreary, but then he hears the  _ chanting,  _ and something stirs in his chest.

They turn the corner into a room where the noise comes from. Din walks at his side, then stares at the sight in front of him. Several Mandalorians are packed around, but in the center are two circles, one inside the other. In the middle is a fire, its light reflecting off helmets and shining metal.

Every warrior is chanting. His finder pulls him into the crowd, leading him through the sea of hidden faces, until they come to the front of the group. The fire isn’t the only light, but there are glowing lanterns placed around, offering enough to see by.

The circles move in opposite directions. Every step taken by the dancers is slow and methodical, in time with the beat. On the other side, Din sees two Mandalorians holding mallets, slamming them down against shiny drums to send vibrations through the floor. The dancers bring their vambraces together to create a faster tempo. The Mandalorians around them beat their hands against their own armor, forming the rhythm.

Din stares at it all, transfixed.

The circles break, forming smaller ones, and then those break until the dancers move around in a pattern that Din can’t see, none ever bumping into each other. They move like this is something they were born to do. And despite the worst day of his life, he can feel the energy in the room. The dedication, the fortitude, and the valor.

One day, he learns that the word for it is  _ shereshoy. _

Soon, the song and dance end. Upon the final drum beat, it all freezes, and then the Mandalorians cheer.

_ “Oya!”  _ they cry. It’s all in unison.  _ “Oya!” _

As the dancers melt away, leaving the middle empty, Din turns to his finder and tugs at his hand. “What was that?” he asks.

His finder looks down at him.  _ “Redalur,”  _ he says. “A traditional Mandalorian dance. We do these to celebrate things like victories.” He squeezes Din’s hand. “Or new foundlings.”

Din looks out. “What’s making the noise?”

His finder gestures to the two with mallets. “They’re hitting those on beskar,” he says, and he gestures to his own armor. “Our sacred metal, what Mandalorian armor is made from. We hit it together for sound.”

“And the words? I don’t… I don’t know them.”

“It’s in  _ Mando’a.  _ Our language. We will teach you to speak it, too.”

Din looks at him, then over as more dancers begin to step into the center, some stretching out. His eyes are big. He looks into the fire.

“Can I learn to dance, too?” he asks, his voice so quiet that it’s almost drowned out.

His finder sets a hand on his back. “Of course,” he says.

In the Fighting Corps, dancing is his one escape, his one reprieve from the endless training. No matter how sore or exhausted he is, learning to dance is the joy in his life, from the time he becomes a foundling even to the day he swears the Creed.

He doesn’t have raw strength like other boys do. He’s lean, limber, shorter, relying more on flexibility and mobility to win a fight. It translates well into dancing, where that mobility is preferred over strength. His instructors pile him with praise. He hums the songs to himself whenever there’s a lull in activity. He marks the steps whenever he’s alone.

At fourteen, he swears the Creed before the Mandalorians and their  _ alor,  _ alongside several other boys and girls his age. 

_ “Haat, ijaa, haa'it,”  _ they recite.

He’s accepted, named  _ Mando’ad,  _ and the pride that fills him lasts the whole day. He’s given congratulations by people he’s learned to recognize by armor. His best friends give him playful elbows and shoves, all of them more thrilled than they show. His finder, his  _ buir,  _ eventually finds him amidst the chaos and drags him into an embrace.

He wouldn’t change a thing right now.

That night, all the Mandalorians gather to relax with each other. The initiates sit to the side together, in the midst of excited conversations, until there’s the clatter of beskar drums and they all look.

Dancers step into the middle, moving into the starting formations for a song. He recognizes it immediately. But he just leans back to watch.

The song begins. All conversations stop in favor of chanting along, the Mando’a falling from his lips with ease.

_ Taung - sa - rang - broka - je - tii - se ka' - rta. _

_ Dha Werda Verda a'den tratu, _

_ Coruscanta kandosii adu. _

_ Duum motir ca'tra nau tracinya. _

_ Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a. _

A hand grabs him by the arm, pulling him out of his seat. He stares up at his instructor, who points towards the dancers. “Jump in,” he says.

Din stares at him. “What?”

“Jump in. They’re about to switch. Go join.” When Din doesn’t move, he’s given a push. “You know this better than the vow you just took. Go.”

Din feels his heart race. For years they couldn’t join in the dances. They were too young or too inexperienced, unable to keep up or follow the steps. He watches the dance, eyes following their movement.

The dance changes to the next phrase. Everyone moves, changing positions, facing outwards, the circles expanding for space between everyone. Din swallows, stomach alight with nerves, then takes a step forward and all but throws himself into it.

He finds a spot and fits into it. The Mandalorians on either side of him give him a glance but only move to make room. He falls into the dance easily, matching the movements of every other Mandalorian, the fire glinting off his own helmet.

He slams his vambraces together. He steps and spins and falls to one knee and back up again, never losing time, like he’s been doing this his entire life. He doesn’t even think about the words--they just come naturally.

He isn’t nervous. Just enchanted.

The drums are hit one last time. They all freeze in place, down on one knee, arms crossing against their chest. They look outwards, helmets tilted upwards. There’s a single beat of silence.

Then, the Mandalorians all cheer.  _ Oya manda.  _ Over and over. Din begins to get up, breathless, his chest heaving. He feels hands clap against his back and shoulders, receiving nods from the others.

Some part of him feels like he was born to do this, too.

He becomes a regular dancer in the ceremonies, the smallest and youngest but there nonetheless. They don’t dance all the time--it’s saved for celebrations. But between standard training sessions, he practices with them. His head is full of music and steps, always humming to himself.

He’s asked to help teach the younger ones. Born Mandalorians at four, five, six years old, energetic and playful and fascinated by the steps and music. The young foundlings, sometimes younger or older who stare at him with intimidation until they begin to move too.

Sometimes, he sees their faces light up when they finally learn the phrase, and he hears them begin to hum or run the steps by themselves. Sometimes, he sees the thrill in their eyes and he knows they’ve discovered it just like him.

Through his teenage years, the music and dance shape him. Even into adulthood. Even when he has a growth spurt, when he stands level with other Mandalorians, even when he passes the age of marriage without interest in a spouse.

His first partner is another dancer. It feels almost poetic for that to be the case, for it to be a boy who loves dancing as much as he does who he kisses first. Timid, helmets fixed, sliding their hands together and bumping foreheads as if it’s the most precious secret they can’t share.

He doesn’t know what they are.  _ Cyare,  _ they whisper to each other, but no further declarations. Alone, they lean into each other, shy but so enchanted, letting hands roam but never daring cross a line.

For years, they only whisper their confessions of love, of affection, with lingering touches and murmured pet names.

He’s grown into manhood when the Empire comes.

Din doesn’t dance anymore.

Their people murdered or scattered, work is near impossible to come by. Few want a Mandalorian, despite their reputation, after the Empire has decimated them. Mandalore has fallen, their beskar taken, and his dream of earning his own full beskar armor is smashed like his clan.

The love of his life goes with it, brought down by an Imperial E-Web like so many others.

He and a group of others burrow into the sewers of Nevarro. It’s dark, damp, and nothing like their former home. They build a forge. They bring in as many comforts as they can scavenge. The sounds only come from parents shushing their children, warriors walking about, and the hammering of the forge. It’s quiet. It’s hopeless.

With the Mandalorians, he found a voice, but after their destruction, he finds himself hoarse.

They agree to only send one at a time to the surface to work, to bring back money and food and supplies. Din isn’t the one chosen to leave. Someone else goes first. He hates it, but he can’t speak against it.

They have no music.

In his own room, he tries to imagine the rhythm and retrace the steps, but finds himself stumbling.

When his turn on the surface comes, he decides he doesn’t want to just be a bounty hunter--he wants something more. So he takes the  _ Razor Crest  _ and goes into the stars.

It isn’t long until he meets Ranzar and his friends.

A thirst for money and a hatred for the Empire is what binds them. They adore him for what he can bring to the table--his skills, his knowledge of fighting, what he’s capable of. A Mandalorian among them increases their reputation, and less are willing to cross them. He knows charges and explosives better than anyone, and can be ruthless when he needs to be.

_ Target practice. _

After enough time, he’s grown weary of it. The flow of credits is good but the jobs are less than savory. Xi’an’s interest in him grows more intense the longer he refuses to remove the helmet, seeing what limits she can push and how uncomfortable she can make him. He never gives in to her offers. Not when he can still hear a soft-spoken voice in his head, gentle and warm and adoring compared to her hisses and giggles.

One day, the  _ Razor Crest  _ receives a transmission. The  _ alor  _ calls him home. Tired of the group, anyway, he says his goodbyes. Ran tries to convince him to stay, but he seems to know Din won’t change his mind.

He returns to the safety of his covert, and for the first time since joining the group, he begins to hum.

It takes two more years before he’s chosen to go again, and this time he has no intention of joining Ran again. When he asks, the past providers direct him to the bounty hunters’ guild. The common house right above is home to several hunters--go and talk to Greef Karga for work.

With an explanation of how it all works, he ventures above, seeing true sunlight for the first time in years. He has to dim his visor. He wanders a bit until he finds it, stepping inside. Everyone goes quiet.

“Mando!”

Karga calls out to him. Din walks to him.

“Another one,” Karga says. “You’re new.”

Din doesn’t talk much. He takes his pucks and a tracking beacon and begins his hunting career.

He’s not very good at first. More targets slip away than he cares to admit. Wandering the galaxy, stepping foot in places he’s never been, the learning curve is sharp. He has to be more careful. More guarded. He has to be cautious and withdrawn and he doesn’t even speak if he can help it. 

He brings bounties in at a steady rate. He begins to take several at a time. Karga hands him the credits and he returns to the covert, hands them to their  _ alor.  _ He keeps only enough to eat and fuel.

The years go by. He comes in and out of the covert—proves himself as a capable provider. Some Mandalorians return home with foundlings and decide to stay with them. Din gets to leave more often. Karga recognizes him by his armor, smiles when he sees him, and presents him with the better pucks.

This is as good as it’s going to be, he thinks.

He doesn’t dance anymore, molding instead to a difficult life as a hunter.

The day he takes the bounty from an Imperial client, the guilt is there but the need for beskar sings louder. There’s enough to give him a whole new suit and then some.

Some 50 year old man. Like it’s going to be anything worse than he already faces.

Only it turns into anything but.

He does everything he can to ignore the warm feeling in his chest upon hearing the child coo and squeak, curious about the world around him, but he can’t afford that kindness.  _ Protect children from harm,  _ his code demands.

_ Provide for your clan  _ it also demands.

When he watches the child disappear from sight, there’s an ache in his chest that the beskar can’t fix. Not even as he removes his durasteel and replaces it with shining armor, glinting in the light. It looks just like the drums he grew up hearing.

Paz Vizla’s words echo in his mind.

That empty sensation in his chest doesn’t disappear until he blows the wall, steals the child back, and runs for it.

When his covert comes to their rescue, he knows he’s indebted to them. He cradles the disoriented boy in his arms and doesn’t let go until they’re lifting off the ground, until he’s stirring in Din’s arms and squirming about, until he’s reaching for a metal ball.

Din gives it to him.

He’s not so good at the guardian thing. He knows that. Even when he allows himself to feel connected to the little being, to murmur to him in Mando’a and let him ride around on his hip or against his chest, those are the easier bits. What’s harder is knowing what he wants when he cries. Giving the right comfort. Always keeping an eye out for him when he’s bound to find trouble.

Omera is patient in showing him what she knows. She helps him learn to use a sling, and eventually he crafts his own  _ birikad  _ out of wood, softened with blankets. The kid seems to delight in it.

He takes Peli’s words to heart, too.  _ Can’t leave him alone. A lot to learn.  _ It’s an understatement. He won’t admit to her that he’s already had a near breakdown from lack of sleep. That the kid’s restless energy is too much sometimes. That he has few options for them.

Handing the kid back isn’t an option. Not anymore. Din would sooner throw himself in front of an E-Web.

But he begins to adjust. When the kid becomes fussy, refusing food or drink, cleaned but still whining, Din walks laps around the cargo hold with the little one in his arms. He stops squirming, but still whimpers. Din hums.

That makes him still, ears perked.

So Din tries to sing.

Mandalorian songs are less about melody and more telling stories, commanding unity, telling of the past. Din tries to sing it softly and gently bounces the boy in his arm. The kid stares up at him with big eyes, cooing, ears twitching as he listens.

With no face to see, the child seems to be soothed instead by his voice, always quick to react upon hearing him in a way that he doesn’t with other people.

Soon, the kid’s eyes begin to droop. He keeps blinking them open, trying to squirm and stare up at Din. But he’s being lulled to sleep and soon the eyes stay shut.

Din strokes an ear and takes a deep breath. He continues to sing, his chest feeling warm. Then he brings a hand to his cuirass and taps the beat.

When the kid is tucked into bed and fast asleep, Din tries to remember the steps, only he can’t remember how to start.

Singing becomes a regular bedtime routine. The kid likes to snuggle against his chest to sleep, burrowing against his warmth, and he hums him to sleep—he giggles at first from the vibrations until he lays down and eventually drifts off.

Talking or singing is what puts him to sleep fastest. He’s even become demanding, patting his hand against Din’s chest until he begins either one. 

Din doesn’t mind at all.

Sometimes he sings. Sometimes he recites the  _ Resol’nare  _ a few times. Or the words of his Creed. One night, he begins to describe what the dances were like.  _ The fire. The drums. The chants. The cheering. The joy. _

“You would like it,  _ ad’ika,”  _ he murmurs. “The light and the music. You’d love all of it.”

The kid is fast asleep.

The covert is destroyed. It may not have been at Din’s hands but it’s still his fault. That guilt follows him, even as they leave the tunnels, as he blows Gideon out of the sky, as he flies them away from Nevarro and away from the nightmare that was the whole ordeal.

He’d faced an E-Web for the first time in years, and wondered if his fear had been the same as his love’s.

He feels terrible all over. The bacta infusion may be working but not fast enough, and its healing properties aren’t enough to mend the rift in his soul. Even the kid--seemingly none the worse for wear--senses it, and soon reaches to climb into his lap. Din lifts him up and lets the little tyke sit, only the kid turns and begins to pat his hands against Din’s cuirass, staring up at him. “Alajaa!” he shrieks, a jumbled mix of sounds.

Din looks down at him, then back to the sky.

The kid stops, then pats again, this time standing as high as he can on Din’s legs like it will make his demand louder. “Ayash!”

Din looks at him again. “What do you want?” he asks, putting a hand on his back.

The kid reaches again, straining, before he taps his hand against the top of Din’s cuirass, patting the edge. “Aaaaa-aaaa!”

Din only stares at him for a moment, utterly confused. “You want…”

“Aaa-aaa-aa…”

Then it clicks. “You want me to sing,” he says. “Oh.”

He pauses a moment, trying to think, before he settles on one. The words come slow, hoarse, his throat unfriendly to the sounds at first after the day he’s had. His mind moves sluggish. He has to stop occasionally and think of the next line.

But he manages. His voice is low and soft, humming the parts he can’t remember--the kid doesn’t know the difference, anyway. He finds himself leaning back in the chair, relaxing, his shoulders dropping. The kid turns and sits, facing away from him but leaning back. He pats both hands against Din’s thigh plates.

It takes Din a moment to realize he’s trying to follow the beat.

His chest warm, he drifts a hand down and taps against the beskar plate, following the time, and the kid tries to follow. His hands stutter and lag but he giggles anyway, trying his best, and looks absolutely delighted.

At the end, the baby laughs and claps his hands, looking up at Din. He leans against him, then reaches down to grab his metal ball and shake it. Din smiles to himself, feeling lighter.

It takes him a few minutes to realize what’s happened.

The kid was trying to comfort him with music.

It takes two years before he finds them. Another covert, another dug-in group of Mandalorians. They accept him, are delighted by his foundling, even as the two parties carefully skirt around each other.

This covert is bigger. Not very. But their headquarters are more bustling.

“Think this could be home,  _ ad’ika?”  _ he says.

The kid just coos and shrieks, fascinated by his newly-gifted stuffed loth cat.

Their new tribe, if Din can call it as much, doesn’t demand much from him, though the credits and supplies he can bring are appreciated. So he’s surprised when the  _ alor  _ asks him to return, and when he walks through the door, the usual rumble of conversation is at a standstill. Dead. Quiet. The Mandalorians mill about and watch him go, but are almost somber.

The  _ alor,  _ Varo, looks up at him. “You’re back,” he says.

“Is something going on?” Din asks.

Varo pauses. It’s brief, but Din notices. “Moff Gideon is alive,” he says. “And he’s in possession of the Darksaber.”

His stomach drops.

“Nox and Tobin came back with a whole account of seeing him with it. Took over a town like Nevarro for a base of operations. Few stormtroopers, but enough. Apparently made a show of executing some resisters with the Darksaber. The two made it out without being seen.”

Din stares at him. “You called me back here to do something about it.”

Varo looks at him. He’s young--younger than Din. That had made him wary at first. But he’s clever and good with strategy, devoted to his  _ aliit  _ and has earned their confidence. He defers to others when they know more. Din has respect for him.

“You’ve faced Gideon and come out on the other side,” Varo says. “A lot of Mandalorians can’t say the same.”

That strikes something deep, and a name comes to mind.

“He has a relic of our people and is not  _ Mand’alor.  _ It must be in the hands of a Mandalorian. Always.” Varo’s look is hard even through his helmet. “You know him better than we do. We want you to lead on this.”

Din stares at him. In the distance, he hears the children shriek as they play, his own  _ ad’ika  _ among them.

“Anything to see that  _ hut’uun _ dead,” Din says.

He’s lost one tribe. He won’t lose another.

Their assault is hard and fast. There are stormtroopers everywhere but it’s less dense than Nevarro was. The Mandalorians position themselves all around the edge of the town, slipping in unnoticed between guard changes. They take out as many as they can quietly.

Until a flare is shot into the air. Someone was discovered. So they all break into an assault, guns blazing.

It takes less than an hour. There aren’t many stormtroopers to begin with and the Mandalorians had the advantage of surprise. An E-Web is assembled, but quickly knocked apart and turned on the Imperials.

It’s satisfying.

Din only wants Gideon.

He and their  _ alor  _ rush the safe house. Din shoves a vibroblade in the door controls and forces it open; Varo charges in with Din behind him.

It has Gideon and the last of the troopers. As more Mandalorian rush in behind them, they make quick work of the troopers until only Gideon is left.

Din doesn’t hesitate. Not for a moment. He rips his vibroblade out of his trooper’s throat, then pulls his blaster and shoots Gideon in the chest, straight through his collarbone.

No fanfare. No clever back and forth before one lives or dies. He won’t give Gideon the damn courtesy.

The rest of the room begins to calm as they realize all the threats are eliminated. Din walks to Gideon’s body and leans down. Dead. No heartbeat. Still smoking.

_ Goodnight. _

The Darksaber sits on his belt, and Din takes it. Heavier than he anticipated, strange compared to the guns he’s handled all his life. He carefully turns it, then presses the button.

The blade shoots out. Black as night, a light white outlining it, humming with the energy. He turns, and it rumbles as it’s moved.

Finally, he turns and looks at the others.

They all stare at him.

Varo steps forward first. Din holds the saber out to him, but instead, the  _ alor  _ sinks down to one knee, looking up at him. Din just stares at him, then at the blade.

“You claim the Darksaber,” Varo says, his voice almost in awe. Behind him, the Mandalorians begin to bend, too, one at a time. “The Empire has fallen and Moff Gideon is dead. You’ve avenged the Great Purge. You are  _ Mand’alor.” _

The Mandalorians each kneel, silent. Din looks at them all and weighs the Darksaber in his hand.

“Our tribe will be the first to answer your call,” Varo says, with an air of finality.

When they finally return home, the Mandalorians are bursting with energy, all with a joy and excitement that none of them have felt in years. Friends and siblings are laughing together, embracing, cheering. Parents rush back to their children and foundlings. With the Darksaber on his belt, Din can only think of his own foundling.

The baby squeals when he sees Din, holding his arms out. Din scoops him up and cradles him to his chest, little claws tapping against his beskar, a small face burying into the folds of his cowl. Din just holds onto him.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. Even if the kid can’t understand a word. “We’re safe.”

That night, he’s told there will be a celebration after dinner, and it piques his interest. He can’t remember the last real celebration they’ve had since the Purge.

He keeps thinking on it even as they eat in their room, Din feeding both himself and the kid, who eagerly munches down on every bite of meat.

Just as they begin to finish and clean up, Din puts the kid on the ground to crawl about, and there’s a rumble through the floor. It hits Din with full-force familiarity, and he stops.

A few seconds later, there’s another.

The kid begins to whimper. He crawls towards Din, then gets to his feet and runs over, grabbing onto his boot. He tugs as hard as he can, looking positively frightened, and holds his arms up.

Din stares at him for a moment, before he realizes that these kinds of noises have never meant anything good in the past.

“Shh,  _ cyar’ika,”  _ he murmurs. “It’s okay.” He reaches down and picks up the baby, cradling him in an elbow as he sets the plates aside and then slips on his helmet. “Everything is okay. Let’s go see it.”

The kid continues to whimper, trying to hide in Din’s arm, and Din just rubs his back as they walk down the hall and towards the noise. Their hideout opens to a large room at the end, where the vibrations now emanate from, and he walks towards it. Through the doorway, he can see Mandalorians, shadowy from a light on the other side.

The vibrations increase, picking up time. It rumbles in his lungs. The kid turns to look and he stares with wide eyes, his ears unfurling, and he doesn’t cry but instead looks around. Din keeps rubbing his back, seeing a crowd of warriors in front of them that gather in a circle with space in the middle.

Firelight flickers against the walls, casting shadows, and something stirs in Din’s chest. He steps into the crowd, and as the Mandalorians turn and see him, they quickly step out of his way. He barely notices until he stands at the front, looking at it all.

The beskar drums are smaller, but still echo around the room as they’re hit with mallets. The Mandalorians pound against their own armor to begin the rhythm. Dancers move in the center, and he recognizes it right away.

With the forgotten steps right in front of him, he begins to remember.

He places the kid down beside his feet, and the child stares at the dancers, looking as transfixed as he once was. Din doesn’t realize Varo is standing beside him until he speaks, just loud enough for Din to hear.

“Did you learn it?” he asks.

Din looks at him.

“The dances,” he says. “We had to learn growing up.”

Din nods. “I did,” he says. “I… danced in the ceremonies. Before the Purge. It was… my life.”

It was a different life.

“Then you should show them how to do it,” Varo says.

Din stares at him. “I don’t need to.”

“Come on.”

“It’s been years and I don’t even remember.”

“Just try. They’d love it.” Varo nudges him. Then he laughs, looking down. “He’s already ahead of you.”

Din looks down. The kid is watching the dancers and trying to imitate them. He hops about and waves his arms wildly. The dancers all turn, then he tries to turn as well, only he can’t stop until he wobbles and falls over. Din reaches down for him, but he hops right back up and tries again.

He’s giggling. He looks delighted as he claps his hands and tries to turn again, only to topple, and gets right up again anyway.

Din looks at the dancers. He recognizes the dance again. Every step they take comes with familiarity and a memory of learning it. Only he doesn’t know what comes next until he sees it. 

“I’d make a fool out of myself,” he says.

“Thought that’s part of the fun,” Varo says.

“Not when you’re-- _ hey!” _

A hand at his back shoves him forward, and he loses his balance, stumbling in just as the formation changes. He looks around, his heart jumping, his body freezing.

It’s been so long.

But the drums echo and the rhythm seems to get louder. He takes the first step. Then the second. It all feels like guesswork. But every guess is right. The other dancers have all moved aside for him to fit right in, and after a moment, it’s not guesswork.

His mind doesn’t remember, but his body does, and he melts into it.

The song goes on. His body is already sore but he barely notices as he moves. The clash of his vambraces sounds better with his real beskar. He’s out of practice, not as graceful and confident as he used to be, but it still comes naturally.

Steps, turns, tucking under and slamming beskar together. His heart pounds.

The Empire is gone.

Gideon is dead.

The Darksaber is returned.

The drums speed up as the ends nears, the rhythm going into a crescendo, until it all crashes together in a final beat where they all freeze on one knee with arms interlocked. He sucks in air, winded, his heart about to burst from his chest. It’s more exhilarating than a fight.

_ “Oya!” _

Years ago, when they finished, he turned to look at the boy he loved.

Instead, he looks at the foundling he saved, eyes wide and face excited, and he decides that everything has turned out okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a:  
> Shereshoy - a lust for life and desire to grab every possible experience. A Mandalorian mentality.  
> Oya - "let's hunt", "cheers", etc., uplifting Mandalorian cry.  
> Redalur - dance  
> Alor - leader  
> Haat, ijaa, haa'it - truth, honor, vision (to seal a pact)  
> Buir - mother/father  
> Cyare - beloved  
> Resol'nare - Six Actions, six tenants of Mando life  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Aliit - clan  
> Mand'alor - sole ruler  
> Hut'uun - coward (worst insult)  
> Cyar'ika - darling/sweetheart
> 
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